Keats's words draw her attention again, and the question sharpens it. Her eyes glow brighter and a cold wind gusts around the four of them, blowing at the long fur about her head like it's caught up in a sea current.

"Revenge," she starts, and she sounds out each syllable heavily, drawing the word out in those haunting tones, "Yes. But revenge... would not fix anything." The wind dies out as her eyes dim once more. Quieter again, she adds, "I want to bring them back."